Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [21]
At least I’m free, he thought. At least there’s that.
In the murky world of bottom-feeders, Frey could count himself among the larger fish, simply by dint of smarts. The world was full of morons and victims. Frey was a cut above, and he was comfortable there. He knew his level, and he knew what happened when people overestimated themselves.
But it was one job. Fifty thousand ducats. A life of appalling, obnoxious luxury staring him in the face.
“Why me?” he asked as Quail refilled his glass. “I must have dealt with you, what, three times?”
“Yes,” said Quail, settling again. “You sold me a few tidbits. Never bought anything.”
“Never could afford it.”
“That’s one point in your favor,” he said. “We’re barely acquainted. The scantest of links between us. I couldn’t risk offering this opportunity to most of my clients. My relationship with them is too well known.” He leaned forward across the desk, clasping his hands together, meshing metal fingers with flesh. “Make no mistake: if this operation goes bad, I don’t know you, and you never heard about those gems from me. I will not allow this to be traced back here. I have to protect myself.”
“Don’t worry. I’m used to people pretending they don’t know me. Why else?”
“Because fifty thousand ducats is an absurd amount of money to you and I believe it will keep you loyal. Because you’re too small-time to fence those gems for yourself, and you’re beneath the notice of the Navy and other freebooters alike. And because no one would believe you if you told them I was involved. You’re frankly not a very credible witness.”
Frey searched his face, as if he could divine the thoughts beneath. Quail stared back at him patiently.
“It’s an easy take, Frey. I know her route. She’ll be following the high ground, hugging the cloud ceiling, staying out of sight. No one’s going to know she’s there but you. You can bring her down over the Hookhollows. Then you pick up the gems and you fly them to me.”
Frey didn’t dare hope it was true. Was it possible that he was simply in the right place at the right time? That a man like him could have a chance to make a lifetime’s fortune in one swoop? He racked his memory for ways he might have given Quail offense, some reason why the whispermonger would send him into a trap.
Could Quail be working on someone else’s behalf? Maybe. Frey had certainly made enemies in his time.
But what if he’s not setting you up? Can you really take that chance?
The clammy, nauseous feeling he had at that moment was not unfamiliar to him. He’d felt it many times before, while playing cards. Staring at his opponent over a hand of Rake, a pile of money between them, his instincts screaming at him to fold and walk away. But sometimes the stakes were just too high, the pot too tempting. Sometimes he ignored his intuition and bet everything. Usually he lost it all and left the table, kicking himself. But sometimes …
Sometimes, he won.
“Tell you what. Throw in some female company, a bed for the night, and all the wine we can drink, and you got a deal.”
“Certainly,” said Quail. “Which lady would you like?”
“All of them,” he said. “And if you have one who’s particularly tolerant—or just blind—she might see to Pinn too. I’m gonna need his head straight for flying, and the poor kid’s gonna split his pods if he doesn’t empty them soon.”
Chapter Six
THE GHOSTMOTH—FREY’S IDEA OF DIVISION—THE ACE OF SKULLS—HARKINS TESTS HIS COURAGE
n the steep heights of the Hookhollows, where the lowlands of Vardia smashed up against the vast Eastern Plateau, silence reigned. Snow and ice froze tight to the black flanks of the mountains, and not a breath of wind blew. A damp mist hazed the deep places, gathering in crevasses and bleak valleys, and a glowering ceiling of cloud pressed down hard from above, obscuring the peaks and blocking out any sight of open sky. Between sat a layer of clear air, a sandwich of navigable space within which an aircraft might pick its way through the stony maze.
It was isolated and dangerous, but this claustrophobic